


A Little Sentimentality

by vands38



Series: Rumours [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Djinn Plotline, F/F, F/M, Found Family, I don't have a beta for this series and it shows, M/M, Multi, POV Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Polyamory, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Has Feelings, calling Aretuza out on their shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:22:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25688014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vands38/pseuds/vands38
Summary: Yennefer breaks the djinn wish that binds her to Geralt, but will she be able to accept the love that remains? She considered herself unlovable for so long that she struggles to accept the honest affection not only from Geralt, but from his bard as well. No one could ever love her without cause... could they?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Rumours [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1595146
Comments: 64
Kudos: 181





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am so very deeply sorry that this took so long. I got distracted by writing two other novel-length Witcher fics (oops?) and the series got put on hold for a little while. A brief reminder of events – 
> 
> [Tossing More Than a Coin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22160914). Jaskier POV. Post-dragon hunt. A rumour says that Jaskier is sleeping with Geralt, so what’s a bard to do? 
> 
> [Indulging Desires](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22201354). Geralt POV. Geralt does a contract for Plot Reasons, then goes to Novigrad and definitely, definitely, indulges his desires. 
> 
> [Love, Destiny & Other Such Bullshit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22441948). Yennefer POV. Yen & Geralt have an arrangement of “love is too dangerous but let’s keep banging” but then they go and confess their love for each other anyway. Yennefer makes Geralt promise that they’ll undo the djinn wish that binds them. We discover that Triss and Yen are best friends with benefits. Also, more plot stuff happens and as a consequence Yen grants Jaskier near-immortality. 
> 
> [These Gifts He Gives Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22778086). Jaskier POV. Jaskier is a badass mofo. Geralt has a competence kink and desperately wants a threesome. Geralt attempts to show Jaskier that he cares by showering him with gifts, and Jaskier attempts to communicate his love with words, and eventually they communicate enough to confirm their mutual affection. Meanwhile, Yennefer is on Skellige for Plot Reasons and Geralt misses her dearly. Jaskier, despite himself, also kinda digs Yennefer and would be DTF. (We also said goodbye to Roach and I was inundated with death threats)
> 
> There! All caught up!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler warning: This is the story where Yennefer breaks the djinn wish and although the show (and thus this fic) obviously deviate from book/game canon there are spoilers within for The Witcher 3 including some lifted dialogue from the djinn narrative and an unrelated plot item that I may or may not be using as a sex toy #sorrynotsorry
> 
> Content warning: voyeurism, where the participants are unaware

Yennefer doesn’t _do_ sentiment. She doesn’t do heartfelt declarations, or gentle hand holding, or whatever else lovers are meant to do. She is well aware that “love” is often no more than a fabricated ruse to benefit someone’s agenda, and it’s unwise to become dependent on its presence, or consider it in any way genuine. She learned never to fall prey to such claims when her mother – despite her supposed love – allowed her to be sold to a stranger for four marks. Any remaining faith in the concept of love was soon dashed at Aretuza where she was met with her classmate’s antagonism and her lover’s betrayal. 

Yennefer was unlovable, and soon realised that if anyone claimed otherwise then it was surely a ruse. 

Or, in this case, a _djinn_.

-

High in the Kestrel Mountains, west of Kaer Morhen, Geralt had convinced Yennefer to indulge in their love, despite the fact that their feelings could well be fabricated by the djinn. In his presence, admitting to this love felt like a blessing… permission to dismiss the barriers between them, to dismiss the _doubt_ , and just bask in the abundance of his affection… but now, with an ocean laid between them, her love feels more like a curse. 

Her heart aches like an open wound. She is bound by rope with no tether. Whether by the djinn’s design, or by her own weakness, being apart from Geralt is a physical and mental strain. She finds herself yearning for his warm embrace in the cold mountains, or his huff of laughter against her ear in the boisterous taverns… she even yearns for a good hard fuck as she lies awake at night thinking of all she left behind. 

She misses him, and the very fact of the matter unsettles her deeply. 

Perhaps her distress is why she contemplates the absurd notion of capturing a djinn on her jaunt across the Skellige islands. Only a djinn can break a djinn’s wish, after all. 

If she captures one and breaks the bond between them, then she could finally feel all this _sentiment_ and not have to doubt its origin. 

-

Yennefer is raiding the druid’s laboratory in Kaer Trolde for the Mask of Uroboros when she stumbles across a tome on djinn magic. She reads the book by candlelight and uncovers a rumour that a mage – Amos var Ypsis – had tamed a djinn and was last seen sailing to Skellige. Yennefer smirks at her own good fortune and begins plotting its capture. 

Djinns are dangerous, she knows this – the last one nearly killed her, after all, and Geralt will no doubt think her irresponsible for seeking to harness another without his assistance. But Geralt _had_ agreed to this course of action, and the promise of a definitive answer is all too alluring. 

-

The investigation brings her to Larvik harbour on Hindarsjall. It is said that Amos var Ypsis drowned at sea. It is also said that he had a djinn bound to him. She reasons that only one of these can be true, and so she casts a spell to find the wreckage of his ship and goes hunting for a djinn.

Yennefer finds half of the djinn’s seal in a crater in the depths of the ocean and finds the rest of the shipwreck stranded atop the mountains, likely transported to safety on some misguided wish. In the bowels of this transported ship is a dead mage, and, miraculously, the other half the seal. 

Yennefer brings the cracked pieces of the seal together and begins to summon the djinn, well aware that she is playing with fire. She would feel immeasurably safer if Geralt was by her side, though he would undoubtedly be an utter nuisance if he were. 

The djinn is powerful, and clever, and it takes all of her energy to tame it. By the time the creature is no more a globe of light hovering before her, she is slumped against the mast, debilitated from her efforts. She uses the last of her energy to bottle the beast before closing her eyes in exhaustion. 

She can only hope that when all is done, the djinn won’t be the only one set free from its trappings.

-

Yennefer spends the rest of her time in Skellige leaving careful breadcrumbs for Fringilla to find, assuring herself that these deceptions will be enough to distract Nilfgaard from their hunt for Ciri. By the time Yennefer returns to the Continent, nearly a month has passed since she parted ways from the others in Talgon. Wary of trackers, she travels through a number of portals in busy cities until finally arriving at the northern city of Ard Carraigh. She buys a horse and rides the last stretch towards the Witchers’ keep of Kaer Morhen. 

The arduous journey makes her thankful that she took a leaf out of Ciri’s book and exchanged her gown for trousers. She doesn’t know why she clung to the image of the court mage for so long when frivolous frocks have never been particularly practical. Her choice was likely guided by the archaic principle perpetuated by Aretuza that prettiness somehow equates to power. Something she recognises as an entirely asinine postulation now that she has broken free of Tissaia’s teachings. 

Yennefer sells her steed a few miles out and continues on foot; the marshes staining her clothes so resolutely that even magic cannot fully repair the damage. The journey reminds her of the last time she traversed this difficult terrain, with Geralt by her side, and a dozen dead drowners at their feet. They had been bickering and distant back then – Yennefer hurt by Geralt’s decision to lay with Jaskier, and not yet understanding why – but even when their conversation had been cold and prickly, his company had been a balm to her nerves. 

The djinn, she reasons, is easily contented when they are in close proximity. She feels its pull now. Every step towards the keep eases her anxiety.

-

Approaching the gates of Kaer Morhen at last, Yennefer realises that she hasn’t thought of anywhere as ‘home’ in a very long time. She probably ought not to indulge herself with the concept, but coming back to Geralt, Ciri, and Triss (and, hell, even Vesemir’s frown and Jaskier’s ever-annoying chatter) cannot reasonably be called anything else. 

She’s never had a family before. Her birth family disowned her, her fellows at Aretuza considered her ‘strange’ and ‘unkind’, and it’s not like she forges meaningful connections with the nobles that she extorts for coin. People don’t like her, and she told herself that was fine. But now – through Geralt – she has a family, and it is not, actually, quite as despicable as she had imagined. 

-

Ciri drops her sword with a gasp and a clang as soon as the gates open. Yennefer can barely hear Vesemir’s scolding over the girl’s excited screeching. Ciri sprints across the courtyard with an impossibly wide grin and barrels straight into Yennefer’s arms.

The mere scent of Ciri shatters the walls around Yennefer’s heart that she had attempted to retain these last few weeks. Her _daughter_. Safe. Happy. _Here_.

Yennefer clings back just as tightly, and doesn’t care one whit for the tears in her eyes. 

“Dearest,” she murmurs. She cradles her daughter’s head and notices that Ciri’s shoulder-length hair has been braided and tied together at the back in a fashion that Triss is fond of modelling.

“I missed you,” Ciri says, squeezing Yennefer tight. 

Yennefer is a stranger to such ardent and open displays of affection. Even Triss – who is the most affectionate of her acquaintances over the years – knows to keep her affection strictly physical. Ciri, however, desires constant and repetitive reassurances that she is loved and safe and cared for. 

Yennefer has never wanted to issue such reassurances so ardently in her life.

“I missed you too, my dear girl,” she says, returning the tight embrace. “I’m glad you are well.”

Ciri’s eyes are watering by the time they part and Yennefer knows it is not just from the stench of bogwater that surely permeates her clothing. 

By this point, Vesemir has come to stand over her shoulder and gives her a nod of greeting, as warm and friendly as they ever manage to achieve. “Is it done?”

“Yes,” she answers, with a reassuring squeeze of Ciri’s shoulder. “I would not have returned if I did not believe my deceptions to have worked. We are safe. Or, at least as safe as we can hope to be.”

“Good,” he grunts. He will undoubtedly demand details of her deceptions later but is perhaps waiting to ask until Geralt is here with them.

The very thought of Geralt is enough to have her eyes darting around the courtyard in hopes of seeing him. As dangerous as the thought is, she will not truly feel at home until his arms are wrapped around her. 

“Geralt’s in Aedd Gynvael with the bard,” Vesemir grunts, and Yennefer wonders just how painfully transparent her desires are that even the old witcher knows her searching for what it is.

Yennefer frowns and her eyes flicker down to Ciri. She cannot imagine what would have caused Geralt to leave Ciri now that they have been reunited. 

Once again, her curiosity must be apparent, as Vesemir huffs and answers her unspoken question, “I believe it was a private matter that brought about his departure.”

Yennefer’s frown deepens, not understanding the meaning of Vesemir’s statement, but then Ciri shuffles her feet nervously beside them.

“What is it?” she asks with an encouraging hand on Ciri’s shoulder.

Ciri pouts. It’s adorable and amusing if only for the fact that she has evidently picked up the habit from Jaskier. “I’m not meant to know.” 

Yennefer smirks. In her experience, the best knowledge comes from that which you are not meant to know. 

“But... they left with Roach, and I don’t think they’re planning on returning with her.”

Yennefer subtly breathes a sigh of relief. Out of all the nightmarish scenarios she had been concocting, a retired horse is hardly the worst of it. Geralt must be devastated though. A mirage of his forlorn frown appears before her eyes but she pushes it aside before it can wrap around her heart. He has Jaskier; he’ll be fine. “Did you see this in a vision? In your dreams?” Yennefer asks, intrigued by Ciri’s extent of prophetic powers. 

“No…” she muses, her lips twisting in contemplation. “I just looked at the stables yesterday and Roach wasn’t there… and,” she shrugs – another borrowed trait from Jaskier – “I just knew she wasn’t _ever_ going to be there.”

Vesemir catches Yennefer’s eye over Ciri’s shoulder. “Like the prophecy she saw in the stars,” he adds. “Her visions are no longer constrained to dreams, it seems. Miss Merigold is working on it with her.”

Yennefer nods, and is pleased to find that the vision of freckled skin and curly hair does well to ease the ache that the absence of Geralt has instilled there. “I shall leave you to your training,” she says, suddenly desperate to seek the warmth that lies inside the castle walls. “We’ll discuss Ciri’s education later?”

Vesesmir nods. “Yes, you’ve had a long journey,” he concedes. “We can discuss this after supper, perhaps.”

“Until then,” she agrees with a tilt of her head. 

Yennefer presses a departing kiss atop Ciri’s head and then, to the sound of clashing swords, makes her way inside the fortress. 

-

Kaer Morhen has a strange aura to it without Geralt occupying its walls. If she had paid it better mind, she might have sensed his absence before she even breached the gates. It feels emptier without him; like an echoing chamber; the very walls of the keep calling out for the students it used to embrace. Without him – without any of the remaining Witchers – it feels sparse. A home with no heart. 

Yennefer tries not to let herself feel too disappointed by Geralt’s absence. In retrospect, she had placed far too much hope on their reunion. She shouldn’t have let thoughts of Geralt penetrate her so – shouldn’t have let them guide her footsteps and tug her by the heart to the place he considers to be home – because her naive fantasy has cursed her to feel bereft, even at the sight of Triss Merigold and a roaring fire. 

This ought to be enough – a place to call home, a talented ward, and Triss Merigold’s smile… – it ought to be enough for anyone. Yet, without Geralt, the idea of ‘home’ seems even more ludicrous than it did before.

“Yennefer!” Triss greets, all smiles and soft touches, as she gracefully unpins Yennefer’s cloak from around her shoulders and methodically folds it in her arms. “I sensed your return, but I am ever so happy to see it with my own two eyes.” 

Yennefer is momentarily struck dumb by Triss’s simple yet profound care. She must look a sore sight, for when Triss has finished smoothing over her cloak, she frowns and reaches out to softly cup Yennefer’s cheek in her palm. The touch could be misconstrued as a friendly touch, if Yennefer were uninclined to her advances. It has been a long month, however, and she can feel Triss’s concern nudging at the edges of her mind.

She leans into the gentle touch, brushes her lips over the delicate skin she finds there, and gradually lowers her mental walls down in the best invitation she can manage. 

Triss is a balm for her mind; her soothing presence calming all the raised hackles and ragged edges of her thoughts that have gathered since their parting. Yennefer feels the familiar tendrils of her presence reaching into the depths of her mind and curling protectively around the worst of her recent transgressions. In return, Yennefer explores Triss’s mind, albeit with much less care, clumsy and brutish in her eagerness for knowledge. (And, she can admit, her eagerness to be reunited with her only one and true friend, as well.) Triss’s mind is just as warm and welcoming as that of the open fire. There are no secrets. No hardships. There is Ciri’s laughter and the gentle swell of pride. Yennefer feels herself relax at the visions she finds there; the peacefulness she witnesses gradually seeping into her own bones. 

Triss is the one person that Yennefer knows loves selflessly. It’s in her nature – part of her innate self – to love and care for others, even if there is no return. Yennefer has never deserved her gentle care, but has always been too selfish to refuse when it has been offered. 

“Come,” Triss says, just as softly, “A warm bath will help ease these aches. Your rooms are just as you left them, though I’ve restocked your supply of scented oils and rose salts, I know how you like them.” 

Yennefer rests her head against her friend’s, overwhelmed by her thoughtfulness. “Thank you,” she whispers. “Though, I would like most of all if you were to join me.”

“Are you sure?” Triss asks, her fingers just as gentle as her mind as they card through her hair. “You must be tired from your journey, I can –”

“I am entirely certain,” Yennefer reassures her. “Your company would do just as well to ease these aches.”

Triss takes her hand and leads her up the spiral staircase to her rooms. There is a curious aura to the rooms – familiar, yet out of place – but she pays it no mind as Triss summons a hot, fragrant bath and begins to work her fingers through her hair. She relaxes into her ministrations, and when the suds have been rinsed, she relaxes into her _other_ ministrations too – Triss’s quick and clever fingers moving underwater this time, slipping between Yennefer’s folds, until she sighs into her climax.

-

The abundance of magic Kaer Morhen seems to change the entire atmosphere of the fortress. It must be very rare indeed that Vesemir is surrounded by sorceresses rather than Witchers, but if he feels uneasy by their company, he doesn’t show it. He grumbles, as he always does, but seemingly takes it all in stride. 

After supper, when Triss and Ciri are discussing some novel or another, Yennefer politely excuses herself and walks down the long table with her cup of wine to where Vesemir is methodically sharpening his sword. Somewhere along the lines, the repetitive sound of metal striking whetstone has become comforting to her – as homely as these very walls. 

“Did you say Lambert will be joining us soon?”

Vesemir looks across at her with a frown; sceptical of her company. She supposes the two of them aren’t prone to chit-chat. The majority of their conversations revolve around what’s best for Cirilla and their dialogue is prickly at best unless Geralt is there to mediate. However, today she welcomes the Witcher’s gruff conversation as a reprieve from her sentimental thoughts. 

Vesemir nods, and presumably not sensing any immediate danger, returns his attention to his sword. “Any day now. He is wise enough to arrive before the first snow.” Another two passes of the whetstone before he speaks again. “I cannot imagine why you ask after Lambert’s whereabouts, given your infamous antagonism. Are you after a new Witcher to charm?”

Yennefer wrinkles her nose at the very idea. “Hardly. I was merely observing how quiet this place is without his lewd and bratty peacocking.”

It is intended as an insult, and likely Vesemir knows it is, but he laughs fondly nonetheless. “You’re not wrong,” he grumbles, finally setting his sword aside. “I will never know how a single Witcher can make as much racket as an entire school of boys.”

Yennefer hums thoughtfully, well aware of the ghosts that still roam these halls. To her, the boys are plenty occupied to this day. She wonders if Vesemir has noticed. If it unsettles him. Before she can ask, Triss is calling them over with a peal of attractive laughter, and they are charmed into harmless chatter for the rest of the night. 

-

After supper, Yennefer portals to her rooms, too tired to traverse the hundreds of steps. The sudden change of location causes her to finally recognise the unusual aura she noticed earlier.

 _Jaskier_. 

_Jaskier has been here_. 

But why? She can’t imagine he’d be interested in her belongings, and she trusts him enough not to snoop for snooping’s sake, so unless…

She focuses her senses until she picks out the unmistakable aura of Geralt as well, so entangled with her own, that she had not recognised it until now. 

They were here _together_. 

More than that, the two of them were _intimate_ here.

She supposes she ought to feel violated at the invasion of her privacy, or jealous that Geralt’s attentions have been otherwise diverted, but instead, the idea of the two of them being intimate in her rooms fills her with desire.

Geralt would never admit to such a thing but he likely missed her as much as she did him, and given his enhanced senses, he would have wanted to surround himself with her scent… 

And Jaskier would be depraved enough to go along with it.

She traces the edge of the bed – the sheets since made, but still bearing the aura of their coupling – and wishes she could conjure the memory of the carnal events that took place here. Then, she realises with a devilish thrill, she _can_.

The Mask of Uroboros that she acquired in Skellige is capable of seeing the past. She needed it for one of her deceptions but afterwards, despite myth claiming it would break in two once used, it appeared to work time and time again. If anything, she has only learned how to harness the power even more aptly. She should be able to conjure their entire carnal encounter without interruption. 

She smirks in anticipation for the enjoyment that’s to come as she extracts the wooden mask and readies herself for bed, slipping on a silk nightrobe and lighting a few candles to set the mood as she does. 

When she returns to bed, surrounded by their presence, it is easy to lie back and conjure their visit, their two bodies moving like ghosts around the room…

 _Pressed against the wall, Jaskier’s legs wrapped around him, gasping, “You’re telling me that this whole time there was a bed – a_ proper _bed – here in Kaer Morhen that we just weren’t using?”_

Where else in Kaer Morhen have they been intimate? An intriguing question with many possible answers... Another time, perhaps.

_Geralt carries him over to the bed. He is desperate for the bard; she can sense it in his harried movements. “It’s Yennefer’s.”_

She notes the way his nostrils flare to capture her scent and revels in the fact that she knows him so well. Geralt is stripping and it’s a beautiful and captivating sight, but she finds that her eyes are drawn to the bard whose eyes are darting around the room in a wondrous combination of panic and desire. 

_“So… are we just not gonna talk about this?” Jaskier asks._

Jaskier is now lying more or less exactly where Yennefer lies, and it’s all too easy to imagine that the Geralt on top of him _then_ is on top of her _now_. Her hand begins to crawl across her night robe, following Geralt’s hand as the vision plays out…

_“What?”_

_“Your obvious desire for a threesome, Geralt.”_

“Oh,” she whispers in surprise, her hand stalling halfway into her underwear. “Well, that’s interesting.” 

Geralt is biting into his – her – neck and rutting against her thigh and it’s very distracting and must be for Jaskier too because he doesn’t speak for a good long while. It seems Jaskier is very good at prying Geralt’s desires from him as Geralt doesn’t object one whit to his assessment of the situation. He actually seems very taken with the idea of lying with his two lovers simultaneously. The idea is… not unappealing. 

Her thoughts of a _menage-a-trois_ are derailed by Jaskier’s highly effective flirtations as he divulges all the ways he’d like to be intimate. Geralt seems utterly undone if his muffled moan is any indication, and Yennefer is just as affected as she begins to pleasure herself in earnest. 

Yennefer’s attention keeps being captured by Jaskier though, as he continues to tease Geralt with his clever little words.

The bard has flirted with her before – as, she imagines, he does with everyone – but she hadn’t realised he would actually be so willing to be bedded. She watches him as his eyes flutter in pleasure and his hair becomes gloriously disheveled and his moans… oh, the way he practically sings under Geralt’s ministrations. He is – she admits begrudgingly – very attractive, and before long she finds she’s not just touching herself to the thought of Geralt, but to the thought of _Jaskier_ too, especially when their positions are reversed and Jaskier comes astride her instead. 

She wonders how those nimble fingers would feel in her hair, how his lips would feel against hers, if she could pry those desperate little sounds from him too…

_“Yennefer,” Jaskier murmurs as he moves above her, eyes heavy-lidded in pleasure._

She gasps, her hips surging forward towards the mirage. 

_“Was I right?” Jaskier asks. “Do you want…?”_

_“You know I desire both of you.”_

_“That’s not what I’m asking.”_

_“I thought you didn’t like her.”_

_“Put it this way,” Jaskier says, “I still think she’d eat me alive, but I’m starting to think that’s not such a bad thing.”_

Fuck. Her pleasure peaks at this very thought. _Yes, darling,_ she thinks as she looks up at him, _I would happily eat you alive_. She comes back to herself just as Jaskier is admitting – 

_“I do not feel for her as you do but I cannot deny a certain… attraction.”_

_“You would be willing?”_

Geralt sounds so eager that Yennefer turns her head to look at him which is of course ridiculous given that their bodies are practically merged. She catches the glint in his eye though, and that’s confirmation enough.

_“I would be more than willing,” Jaskier confirms._

She climaxes for the second time to the sound of Geralt’s grunts in her ear and the sight of Jaskier moving so artfully above her. He’s so pretty, _fuck_ , he’s so pretty – 

She allows the past to keep playing out even as she lies there motionless in post-coital bliss. She ought to put an end to the stolen memory, but she misses Geralt and craves the closeness, even if his touch is no more than a whisper of magic against her skin. She reassures herself that this comfort she feels comes from Geralt, and Geralt alone, and not the beautiful bard in his arms. 

When she comes down from her high, she realises that Geralt is being comforted. Concerned, she strains her sleepy mind until she can recognise that Jaskier is comforting Geralt over _her_ absence. 

Geralt may be a lot of things but he isn’t often emotionally vulnerable. Jaskier, once again, working his own kind of magic. When she hears Geralt murmur a confession that ought to have been kept private, she ends the projection with a flick of her fingers and allows the real, empty, bed to come back around her. 

Guilt, loneliness, and sorrow converge and burrow into her chest. Hearing Geralt, seeing Geralt, and being _surrounded_ by Geralt, all the while being unable to touch him, has only made her miss him more. She pries off the enchanted mask with a frustrated groan and tosses it aside, cursing under her breath about the useless gimmick as she attempts to get comfortable under the sheets. 

Today’s abundance of emotions torment her. She wishes she could love Geralt without question. She wishes that his absence did not hurt her so. And she wishes that she could understand the swirling conflict of emotion that arises when she thinks of the bard.

These trite sentimental wishes are unbefitting of any djinn, yet she cannot think of any she would rather cast if she had another in her grasp. 

She closes her eyes and falls into a fitful sleep, dreaming of mountaintops and amber eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is on the short side but it's heavy stuff so hopefully won't feel that way. yennefer does some much needed introspection!

The next day, a Witcher arrives. Yennefer tries not to be too disappointed when that Witcher turns out to be Lambert.

She has only been unfortunate enough to meet Lambert on a handful of occasions but each time was memorable enough to form what Vesemir so kindly described last night as ‘infamous antagonism’. The young Witcher is crass, and cocky, and will boast about his conquests (both beastly and otherwise) at any given opportunity. She finds him distasteful, and he finds her untrustworthy, and thus they have reached a compromise where they agree not to acknowledge the other. 

Darling Ciri, however, is personable enough to just about get on with anyone – 

“So then what happened?” she asks that night at dinner, perched on the edge of her seat with wide eyes as Lambert regales her with yet another tale of overdramatic monster slaying. 

Lambert, stoked by his eager audience, grins and leans down to whisper – “So then I reached inside its slashed belly and pulled out its –”

“Yes, that’s quite enough, thank you,” Yennefer cuts in. Lambert’s gruesome description was complete with violent actions, one of which nearly knocked the stew onto the floor. “Some of us are trying to eat here.”

Lambert scoffs as he turns to face her. “Didn’t think you were the kind to have a delicate constitution,” Lambert retorts with disgust. “What with eating draconoid placentas on the full moon.”

Yennefer’s lips twist. Eating the placenta had been yet another foolish attempt to reclaim her womb and it’s not something that she wishes to casually revisit over dinner. Lambert must have heard the story through Geralt, seeing as Geralt is naïve and well meaning enough to share knowledge without considering how it might be used. Yennefer straightens her face and corrects, “A new moon.”

“What?”

“We eat them on the new moon, not the full.”

He glares.

She drinks her wine.

Then, a nervous peal of laughter cuts across their tense debate, and Yenenfer’s eyes flicker over to the source: Triss Merigold; ever the peacemaker. 

“She’s joking,” Triss reassures Lambert, with a charming smile that would soothe any beast. “Besides, I’m sure you’ve eaten worse on the Path.”

Yennefer meets Triss’s eyes over the dinner table and lets her gratitude pulse down their connection as Lambert takes this opportunity to boast about the vilest food he has consumed on the Path much to Ciri’s horrified amusement. Triss must have recognised her discomfort and artfully knew how to sway the conversation. Yennefer has never perfected the skill of subtle manipulation but Triss does it so well that no one ever suspects her of being anything but ‘nice’. 

Yennefer turns to Vesemir and resumes their discussion about Ciri’s training until the name of her lover on the girl’s tongue catches her attention once more – 

“– Geralt would be wise enough not to fall for that.”

Yennefer is snorting her amusement into the palm of her hand before she can suppress the instinct. 

Ciri looks across at her with a raised eyebrow, abandoning whatever juvenile conversation Lambert had been conducting to question Yennefer.

“Where do I start on this great, deep ‘wisdom’ you cite?” Yennefer says, as she gives Ciri a playful nudge under the table. “The incident with the djinn perhaps? Or the fact that he once promised me – a great sorcesseress to which he was a stranger at the time – that he would give ‘whatever the cost’ to fix his beloved bard?”

Lambert chuckles in agreement, and bangs his tankard on the table. “What do you know, the witch is right for once: Geralt is as wise as Vesemir is young.”

Beside her, Vesemir hurls a potato squarely at Lambert’s head and she wagers that they’re both disappointed when Lambert effortlessly evades it. 

“Ah!” Triss interrupts with a raised finger as if some great thought has just occurred to her. “But if it concerns Jaskier, then we must make allowances. Love makes fools of us all.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes. Given Geralt’s immense emotional ignorance, she supposes it’s entirely likely that he only acted so rashly upon their meeting because Jaskier’s life hung in the balance. “And the djinn? What is his excuse for that dastardly wish?” she asks, with a lilt of amusement to her voice. It wasn’t long ago that the topic was broached with anger but if anyone notices the change in her attitude towards this matter they are wise enough not to comment on it. 

“As I said,” Triss says, stealing her goblet of wine with loitering fingers, “Love makes fools.”

Yennefer snorts. “We hardly knew each other –”

“And yet, your souls called towards each other,” Ciri starts.

Lambert barks out a laugh and then, when Ciri glares at him, attempts to cover his disparagement by rapidly swallowing his ale.

For her part, Yennefer merely baulks at this romanticised notion. Ciri has clearly spent too much time around Jaskier if she is producing such sentimental nonsense. Or, perhaps, she is merely being a teenage girl and reading too many of Triss’s romance novels. Either way, she ought to dissuade her from such romanticism before the poor girl gets her heart broken.

“Ciri, my love,” she says, as softly as she is able, “You’d do well to not mistake a man’s survival instinct for his affection.”

“Very sage advice, _except_ ,” Triss intervenes, yet again, as she smirks over the rim of Yennefer’s goblet in preemptive victory, “in this instance, I believe it was _you_ who was in danger, and he who risked his life to save you. If anything, he went _against_ his survival instinct in order to –”

“He did not ‘save’ me, I was fine,” she corrects. “And if he felt compelled to intervene then I can only imagine that he wished to gain my gratitude, or else repay his debt for Jaskier, not out of any –” she waves her hand, trying to recall the words of Ciri’s naive romanticism, “ _sentimentality_. Whatever his motivations, I can be reassured that it was self-servicing. It is one’s nature to think of themself first and all else second –”

“Hear, hear,” Lambert chimes in.

Yennefer shakes off the peculiarity of the crass Witcher agreeing with her before she adds, “Even a man as outwardly chivalrous as Geralt is no different. In fact, you need look no further than that damn wish he chose to cast –” 

“You said you’d forgiven him for that,” Ciri interrupts. 

Yennefer snaps her head towards her ward at the unexpected interruption. Ciri is frowning, with tears in her eyes, as if the conversation deeply troubles her.

Yennefer winces. Of course. She and Geralt are as good as parents to her. She cannot imagine it is beneficial to the girl’s precarious sense of stability to see them fight. “I have forgiven him. Of course I have,” she reassures her ward with a squeeze of her hand across the table. “For, when Jaskier’s life hung in the balance in Talgon, I found myself making much the same choice as he had in Rinde. I understand his actions, but that does not mean that they were wise.” 

Silence befalls the five of them for a moment before Triss pushes Yennefer’s goblet back towards her and says softly, “I don’t think one’s actions are always self-servicing. Even the most selfish person is capable of being selfless for those that they love.”

Yennefer shakes her head, not wishing to linger on the idea for a moment longer, as the idea she used to hold clear in her mind begins to blur before her. She is only alive because she trusted no one. She only escaped the hands of cruel men because she knew how to appeal to their selfish nature. She only survived, time and time again, because she _knew_ that every act was ultimately self-serving. Every time she skims the minds of bandits, and thieves, and noblemen, their motivations are always the same, and thus easy to manipulate. This notion is what has kept her alive.

But… has she not seen inside Geralt’s mind? 

In Rinde, his only thought was for Jaskier. At Sodden, his mind was occupied with Ciri. And on the Kestrel Mountains, his thoughts kept drifting to her… 

He must still have these selfish motivations, she reasons, but buried deep. He must have his motivations for caring for them, ones that stem from money, or greed, or pride… 

But, she hasn’t seen them. She hasn’t seen so much as a glimpse. 

“As you said,” Triss adds cautiously, “you saved Jaskier. You granted him near-immortality, at the sake of your own. I do not see how that act is in any way self-serving.”

“It was practical,” she retorts; the mantra that she has clung to every time the bard crosses her mind. “I thought through the consequences of his likely death and did not find the outcome desirable. I acted accordingly.”

Her clinical assessment seems to render her audience mute. Even Lambert does no more than give a low whistle of disbelief. Poor Ciri looks downright heartbroken. She supposes the girl is fond of the bard, and probably doesn’t enjoy the idea of him being alive as a _practicality_. But she will not apologise. It is better the girl learns the truth about love now, so that she may enter into such arrangements in the future with wisdom instead of naivety. 

Saving Jaskier was practical; her burgeoning respect for him also. Even Geralt must only submit to his love for her because it benefits him in some way – protection for Ciri, someone to share his bed, a powerful sorceress at his beck and call – and it benefits her too, naturally, but she is well aware that there is no use voicing such a clinical view of things around such romantics. 

The silence stretches long, until Lambert taps his cup on the table and declares, “And here I thought I was a cold-hearted bitch.”

“ _Hey_ –” Triss attempts to intervene but she’s not fast enough as Lambert talks over her –

“No, no, I’m curious. Let’s ask her about her other relationships and see if they’re all this superficial. So, you saved Jaskier because it was _practical_ ,” he states, looking at Yennefer but not giving her time to dispute it. “Does that mean it’s _practical_ to fuck Geralt too? What does he give you? Huh? Access to Kaer Morhen? A bodyguard? A good fuck?”

“Lambert!” Vesemir scolds.

“No, I’m serious, if we’re all just practicalities here, I’m sure we’d like to know what part we’re playing. I’m sure _Cirllia_ would like to know –”

Yennefer inhales sharply at Lambert’s implication. “That’s not –”

“Oh, is it not?” Lambert sneers. “I thought you were all about _practicality_ , not sentimentality, yet you expect us to believe that you are mentoring a powerful heir to the throne out of the goodness of your heart? Bull _shit_. You’re using her, just as you’re using all of us –”

He is silenced. Not by words, not by violence, but by the shrill shrieking of a prophecy-laden child. 

Yennefer covers her bleeding ears and looks through squinting eyes to see Cirillia across the table from her; her head thrown back in the grips of immense power as crockery flies in an ever-increasing radius from around her. Yennefer struggles against the force field, her attempts at magic repelled like two opposing magnets as she attempts to break through to her ward.

It is Triss that manages it, in the end, uttering a spell that shatters the barrier and immediately sends Cirilla into a deep sleep.

Lambert blearily catches her collapsing body even though bleeding ears and hazy vision, and cradles her, awkward and unsure, in his arms.

“Well... _fuck_.”

-

Yennefer stands over her ward as she sleeps soundly and unnaturally in her bed. She rubs her hand over her face, feeling utterly wretched. 

Beside her, she feels Triss’s gentle hand on her shoulder, and hears the Witchers’ footsteps disappear down the hall. 

“I fucked up,” Yennefer confesses. 

Triss tilts her head. “We’re all allowed to make mistakes. What do you believe was yours?”

“Coming here. Meeting Geralt. Loving Ciri. I don’t know, pick one.”

“You don’t mean that,” Triss says in a soft voice, and guides Yennefer to sit on the edge of the bed with her.

“I don’t,” Yennefer admits. “But I’m not… in the habit of keeping attachments. I don’t know how to do it without hurting people.”

Triss hums, as if she’s actually contemplating the matter. “It might help if you stop considering relationships as artificial constructs. You don’t have to justify your attachments to people, Yennefer. Love isn’t logical like that. It doesn’t stem from selfishness like other motivations do. You can just feel things and not have to –”

“What? Justify them? Doubt them?” she laughs bitterly, and glances at her sleeping ward. “If there’s a logical motivation behind their actions then at least you have certainty. Without that reasoning I…” her eyes linger on Ciri, on the girl that she has chosen to love unreservedly like a mother would a child. “Love without cause is terrifying.” 

“Yes,” Triss says simply, entwining their hands, “it is.” 

Yennefer sighs, and allows Triss to absorb the negative energy that surrounds her. 

“Consider this,” Triss says, looking towards Cirilla as well. “If you can love Ciri without reason, then why can’t Geralt love _you_ without reason?”

“Because… I…” Yennefer frowns, and afraid of the actual answer, falls back on her old mantra, “The djinn fabricated it, it’s not real –”

“It might be,” Triss advises, with a nod towards her rooms. “Or did you sneak a djinn into Kaer Morhen with another goal in mind?”

Yennefer huffs her laughter and shakes her head. Triss, her oldest friend, knows her well enough to know her intentions. “No, you’re right. I intend to break the spell as soon as Geralt returns from Aedd Gynvael.”

“Then soon you will know,” she states with a squeeze of her hand. “Promise me, when that spell breaks, that if you still feel love for Geralt, you will not be afraid to accept it.”

Yennefer grimaces. “I can’t promise that.”

“Then promise me that you will _trust_ it, until you learn not to be afraid. Don’t look for cause, or for justification. Just let yourself feel it, and trust that it will lead you down the right path.” 

Yennefer swallows her nerves as Triss gets to her feet and leaves her with her thoughts. 

Yennefer looks to her ward; at the girl she saw on a battlefield and recognised as her daughter. There was no reason to care for her; no self-serving motivation for her actions. The act was not selfish. She had wanted a daughter, yes, but Ciri had wanted a mother. It was a beneficial arrangement, certainly, but it was so much more. She had felt that bond and trusted it instinctively. Could she do the same for Geralt? For Jaskier, even? 

She didn’t think it was possible for someone to look at her and see a person; for someone to want to be with her, not as a powerful mage and ally, but as a friend or lover. But if what Triss is saying is true – if others can love her, as unreservedly as she loves Ciri – then people must see her that way. 

Yennefer had never let herself believe that anyone would love her for _her_. She was ugly, and made herself pretty. She was weak, and made herself powerful. All so that she would be _needed_ , because ‘need’ was as close to ‘love’ as she could achieve.

But, Geralt doesn’t _need_ her. He wants her. He says that he loves her, even.

And if that is true, then it is certainly too much to comprehend. 

Instead, she rises and walks to her sleeping ward, pressing a firm kiss against her forehead and speaking – for the first time – the words with their true meaning, “I love you, my child.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter: Geralt & Jaskier return


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who needs consistent chapter length anyway lol
> 
> sorry this is taking far longer than I anticipated. the actual chapters only take a handful of hours to write but finding the time? finding the vibe in the current hellstate we live in?? oh, boy. please be rest assured that I do have the whole thing planned and it's just a matter of typing the damn thing. half of the next chapter is already written so hopefully you won't have such a long wait next time! thanks for sticking with me <3

Geralt, at last, comes home. 

Yennefer watches with fond amusement as he drops his bags and tackles Ciri in the courtyard. Or, rather, she tackles _him_. They collide into each other with laughter and playful hands as father and daughter squabble for affection.

Yennefer tears her eyes away from Geralt’s captivating smile to find his shadow, Jaskier, looking on with an expression just as fond as hers, until his eyes lock onto hers and his countenance shifts from sentimental to flirtatious in the blink of an eye. She huffs a laugh and begins descending the stairs towards them. Jaskier looks weary, she notes, as he disposes of his bags and lifts Ciri into an embrace of his own. She supposes that without a horse they must have carried their luggage some forty odd miles across this difficult terrain and – despite his magically-extended life – Jaskier is still woefully human. Concern furrows her brow as her eyes dart once more over to her lover; disappointed that Geralt has not treated his bard with more care. 

Geralt must finally register her approach when she steps off the last stone step into the courtyard because his head snaps towards her with an open expression that she struggles to define. How is it, in the span of a single month, that she forgot just how bright his eyes are? How intoxicating his scent is as it carries on the breeze? How delicate the bow of his mouth is as it ticks up into a smile? And how, oh how, her heart flutters at the sight of him. 

She approaches, cautiously, unsure of their standing with a month apart. They had parted on good terms but now she knows of his other desires, her eyes can’t help but flicker over his shoulder to his shadow. “You’re back,” she says, halting at a distance. 

His eyes seem to darken; grow steelier; a physical manifestation of the Witcher squirreling away his emotions. Perhaps she should have given into her instincts and embraced him after all.

“Yes,” he says plainly. “Is everything…?”

“It’s taken care of,” she replies, just as curtly. “But there’s something we need to discuss.”

A furrow appears in his brow. Perhaps she should have waited for him to settle before mentioning the djinn. She covers her chest with her arms in an old self-conscious habit of hers; he makes her feel just as inept as a child sometimes. She doesn’t know which one of them is worse at expressing emotion; Geralt may be taciturn but she is explosive, and neither are particularly conducive to a healthy relationship. 

He nods; his expression grim. “Okay. I, uh…”

Jaskier steps between them and rolls his eyes, shooting Yennefer a fond smile as he goes, the cheeky grin accompanied by a curious glint in his eye that makes her feel oddly hot and discomforted. “Go,” he urges Geralt, with an elbow in his side. “I’ll unpack.”

Geralt’s eyes flicker to Jaskier and Yennefer can feel affection radiate from Geralt towards his bard like sunshine on a winter’s day. Yennefer watches, astonished, as Geralt leans towards Jaskier and presses a kiss to his temple, murmuring his thanks against the delicate skin there while his hand squeezes the bard’s forearm as if reluctant to let go.

Yennefer is stunned into silence at the display of affection and the words of appreciation that just fell, almost naturally, from Geralt’s lips. Perhaps he is not quite as emotionally stunted as he had let her to believe, or, perhaps Jaskier has truly been very hard at work indeed. She is so stunned, in fact, that she misses most of Jaskier and Ciri’s departure until their sudden absence brings about a silence so severe that Yennefer doesn’t know how to breach it as the two of them stare at each other, two metres apart. 

“How was Aedd Gynvael?” she asks eventually, just to break the silence.

“Fine. Said goodbye to Roach. Bought Jaskier a knife. Dealt with a water hag on the way back. How was Skellige?”

“Fine. Covered our tracks. Stole some priceless artefacts from Kaer Trolde. Found a djinn.”

Geralt’s eyes snap to hers. “A djinn?”

He seems angry, probably recalling their last encounter with the creature. Perhaps she ought to clarify, “Only a djinn can break a djinn’s wish,” she says bluntly. “We both need to be present so it can see the thread that binds us. Consequently, once I found it, I captured the beast and brought it here.” At Geralt’s frown, she reminds him, “You said you’d help.”

He sighs and rubs his hand over his face. He looks nearly as exhausted as his bard. “You brought a djinn to Kaer Morhen,” he states in a disbelieving monotone.

“Yes.”

He looks around the keep; his countenance fond but exasperated. “Does Vesemir know?”

Yennefer’s lips tick up into a smile, rather proud of herself for hiding the fact from the old Witcher. “No.”

“Let’s keep it that way,” he grunts, and Yennefer rejoices when a familiar light returns to his eyes. 

The sight gives her the strength to bridge the gap between them at last and rest her hands upon his chest; feeling that reassuring slow beat of his heart and the steady expanding and contracting of his lungs. “I’m glad you’re home,” she says, testing the foreign word on her tongue as she looks up into his golden eyes. 

He smiles in that barely-there way of this. His hands fall to her hips, and his head rests against her own. “As am I,” he says, voice low and rumbling and far too reminiscent of lazy sex-sated mornings.

She tilts her head and presses her lips against his; gently, in a question. 

She feels his sharp exhale, and then the skittering of his fingers against her cheek, and then he is kissing her deeply and ardently; a veritable flood of passion flowing towards her like a river breaking free of its dam. 

Yennefer pulls away, breathless and eager for more. She summons a portal, impatient with lust, and she knows Geralt must be fairing similarly because he doesn’t even comment when she pushes him through the swirling vortex and into her bedroom on the other side.

-

Geralt groans, from his queasiness or from his passion she doesn’t know until he gasps between kisses – “I need to tell you something.”

She skims his mind and laughs at what she finds there, “Darling, if it’s that you and your bard are responsible for wrecking my bedsheets then I already know,” she says, easing his frown with a kiss, “and there is no need to apologise. I conjured the memory for my own enjoyment, in fact, and it was immensely pleasurable.”

Geralt frowns in confusion; he never did have a good grasp of her powers. 

“I have a device,” she states, “capable of seeing the past.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Geralt says, suddenly understanding. His eyes widen, and then he’s kissing her in such a filthy manner that it ought to be classified more as ‘mouth fucking’ than actual kissing. 

She is so distracted by his deep and searching kisses that it’s not until she feels the bed pressing against the backs of her knees that she realises Geralt has walked her towards it. 

“I suppose, on that note, I ought to confess something too,” she says, gasping in pleasure as Geralt’s lips lock onto her throat.

He grunts a question, more rumble than words, and she thrills when she feels the indentation of teeth amongst the lips on her skin.

She gasps and manages to articulate her thoughts somehow between that bite and the next. “I find that Jaskier is not wholly abhorrent.”

“High praise,” he huffs, his voice betraying his offensive even if his mouth has not ceased its determined movements. 

“I’m trying to tell you that I would happily lay with you both, if you desired it. I was planning on inviting him into our bed tonight, if you are willing.” 

Geralt pulls away with an utterly gormless expression that somehow manages to be both amusing and wholly endearing. He stares at her for several moments, breathing deeply, and his eyes wild, seemingly incapable of forming a vocal response. She watches, captivated, as he licks his lips. Unable to resist, she skims his mind to see all sorts of delightful scenarios cross his mind. “Is that a ‘yes’?” she prompts.

Geralt swallows; his Adam’s apple bobbing before her. He nods. And then he vocalises in a beautifully wrecked voice, “Yes.”

“Very good,” she purrs, before reaching for his shirt and pulling it over his head in one quick movement. “Now tell me what else you desire.”

Geralt’s eyes flutter closed, his head resting against hers again as his hands run over her sides. “You,” he whispers against her lips. “I want you.”

She smiles, the answer flattering but not specific enough for her needs. “In what manner would you like me, my Witcher?”

Geralt’s eyes linger on hers and then, presumably seeing her willingness in her eyes, grins wickedly and swiftly picks her up in his arms. 

_Oh_ , how she missed those arms. Strong. Encompassing. _Comforting_.

“Allow me to show you,” he flirts as he throws her effortlessly onto the luxurious bed. He’s over her and pinning her hands above her before she’s even cognisant of the fact.

Geralt doesn’t often take charge in bed but it’s clear that he needs it for whatever reason and she is more than happy to follow his lead, revelling in the novelty of Geralt taking what he needs and not patiently waiting for someone to give it to him. 

His kisses do not lose their passion as they tangle in bed together. He is covered in grime from his travels and still smells of bog water and monsters but she has missed him so much that even these inconveniences become insignificant. They claw at each other’s clothes and devour each other’s mouths until he is sliding into her with a sigh of relief.

He whispers her name like a prayer, tells her that he loves her, and caresses her with frantic hands and passionate kisses as he moves deep within her. She holds onto him just as desperately as he takes what he needs, and, between his confessions, she whispers some of her own – 

“I missed you,” she says, knowing it to be real. “I love you,” she says and hopes – _fuck_ , does she hope – that that’s real too.

Afterwards, they lie panting, side by side, sated after their hurried coming together. “Tomorrow,” she says, licking her dry lips. “Tomorrow we’ll summon the djinn.”

She wants one more night of playing pretend; she wants to invite Jaskier into their bed – to indulge Geralt in his deepest desire – before risking all that they have.

Geralt’s fingers weave between her own. “Tomorrow,” he agrees, and brushes his lips over her knuckles in a manner so tender that it makes her broken little heart sing. 

-

Yennefer leaves Geralt to his well-earned rest and a well-earned bath and finds Jaskier as they had agreed. An odd sensation crawls in her stomach, something akin to nerves, which is absurd given that all she is doing is talking Jaskier into something that she already knows he desires. Although, she admits, there is a stark difference between expressing a desire between the sheets, and following through with it in the cold light of day. He could say no. He could laugh. He could tell her that he feels no attraction towards her, feels no desire to be with her, even with their Witcher between them. 

Aretuza may have made her beautiful but they couldn’t erase the experience of ugliness; the inevitable self-doubt instilled by years of repeated rejection.

She finds him, eventually, reclining on a cot in the main hall. His bags are dispersed around him, his hair is still dripping from a recent bath, and he leans back against the wall, picking at his lute strings with a frown. She realises that this must be his _bedroom_ ; camped out here with the Witchers like a bunch of schoolboys. She didn’t expect someone from nobility to be able to withstand such accommodation but perhaps twenty years by Geralt’s side has lowered his expectations somewhat. 

“Oh. Yennefer,” he greets with surprise, almost dropping his instrument in his hurry to stand. “I wasn’t expecting you two to be finished already – not that he’s something to _do_ , or that I expected anything really, I mean, if anything his stamina is something to be _applauded_ –” 

Yennefer snorts a laugh at his ramblings; the bard getting redder by the moment. She raises a hand and he falls blissfully silent. “Relax, bard. I didn’t come here to compare notes. And I didn’t mean to interrupt your, uh –”

“Tuning,” he explains, with an explanatory wave of his instrument. “Yes, the cold weather is dreadfully trying for the old girl. It’ll be even worse for the recorder, actually, that will be my next port of call… Did you know Geralt _likes_ the recorder? Well, when I say ‘like’ I mean that he only tore it from my hands the one time, which was perfectly understandable given the circumstances that I –”

“Jaskier,” Yennefer interrupts, his constant rambling turning from endearing to annoying awfully quickly. 

“Right, of course, woodwind isn’t to everyone’s tastes –”

“Jaskier, do you want to fuck?”

“What?” he asks, paling a good few shades, his grip slipping on the lute to make a discordant sound that echoes through the hall. 

“You know, Witchers don’t have birthdays,” she reasons, amused by the way Jaskier nods along with vacant eyes, clearly not understanding what’s happening between them. “Most of the boys were bought here when they were very young with little recollection of their lives before. Vesemir once told me that they only count years by the first snow. How many snows they’ve seen at Kaer Morhen accounts for their age.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says with a shake of his head. “I’m not sure I’m following –” 

“The first snow was a couple of days ago,” she muses, “so by all rights that means it’s his birthday, or thereabouts, and I think everyone deserves something nice on their birthdays, don’t you think?”

Jaskier licks his lips, nods his head, and puts aside his lute with utmost care. Yennefer is starting to think that he’s getting the gist. “You want to fuck?” he asks, with a juvenile pointing between them. “For Geralt’s birthday?”

She shakes her head, “That’s the reasoning, if you need it. He wants the three of us together. I want to give it to him.”

“How… sweet?” Jaskier says, and then scrunches his face and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, it’s been a really long… however long it’s been. I am very tired. Possibly got the sniffles. Definitely cold and a little bit grumpy given the constant freezing state of this empty fortress. And you’re just… straight up proposing a threesome? I’m sorry. I just need…” he sits back on the bed, looking up at her with an expression that was almost as confused as Geralt’s. “Yennefer, you don’t even _like_ me.”

She shrugs. “I like you well enough.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and falls back on the creaky bed with a groan, covering his face with his hands. 

Shockingly, for once, he doesn’t speak, which is how she knows she’s fucked up. She hurries to clarify: “I saved your life. You said we were friends. I trusted you with Geralt. I thought that was explicit enough.”

Jaskier makes another dramatic noise and rubs his eyes with his hands before sighing and staring up at the ceiling far above them. His fingers are twisting themselves in his lap. “So you saved my life because you _like_ me... Funny,” he says, though his voice sounds like he’s anything but amused; it sounds tight, restrained – pained, almost. “Rumour has it otherwise.” 

_Fuck_.

Yennefer should have known that her harsh words from the other night would come back to bite her in the arse. She winces and takes a moment to gather her senses. 

Jaskier glances at her and having confirmed her guilt, starts to witter away again, “Yes, I had a dear chat with Ciri… and then with Lambert. He’s a bit of a prick, isn’t he? Anyway, turns out you’re not very popular right now, and I can see why. Not gonna lie, it hurt me a little bit, knowing that I’m only alive because it would have been _inconvenient_ to you otherwise. You can see how that might dampen my enthusiasm to sleep with you.”

Yennefer winces again and cautiously sits on the edge of the bed, pleased that Jaskier doesn’t immediately scuttle away. “It appears I… might have been mistaken. It’s not… not that simple, I don’t think. I don’t…” she sighs and tilts her head back, gazing up at the distant roof like she would with a night sky. “People like me – like _us_ –” she amends, because she knows enough of him to know he was also a rejected child, “we stay alive by assuming the worst of people, by protecting ourselves first and all else second. You understand. I had to justify the action as having a reasonable cause.”

“I understand,” Jaskier mutters, and playfully kicks his bare feet against her back. “You should have heard all the bullshit I told myself to justify staying with Geralt all these years. He’s a big bad Witcher, he can protect me. He’s a walking legend, a perfect muse. He’s…” Jaskier sighs wistfully, “well, he’s a wonderful man that I wanted to spend my life with, but I didn’t dare admit the fact, even to myself. I had to see it as a practical venture, not a sentimental one, or else I would have had to have a very frank conversation with myself about why that was.”

Yennefer huffs a laugh, amused that Jaskier understands her twisted thoughts even more than she thought he would. 

“Admitting you care means making yourself vulnerable, I get it, but you’re not in survival mode anymore, Yennefer, not everything you do has to come from that selfish place. You have people that care about you, that will protect you, look out for you… you just have to let them in in return.”

“I don’t need the speech, Jaskier.”

“No?” he says with another pointed jab of his toes at her side. “Because it sounds like you do. Ciri’s still mad at you by the way. I don’t think she enjoyed the implication that she was being used for your own personal agenda anymore than I did –”

“I explained it to her –”

“Pffft,” Jaskier exclaims with a disbelieving roll of his eyes. “You evaded, more like. I know you. You would’ve been all like ‘you’re missing the point, Ciri’ and ‘listen to your mother, Ciri’ and ‘control your chaos, Ciri’. I bet you didn’t even apologise.”

“Fuck you, Jaskier,” she sneers, standing up from the shitty bed and turning her back to him. “You don’t fucking know me, how dare you –”

“Yes. I do,” he says with a tired sigh, “as we’ve just fucking established; we’re more similar than you’d like to admit. I know what you did, because that’s what I would have done the same in your position. Deflect, tell some pretty truths to hide the ugly ones…”

Yennefer feels tears building in her eyes and rapidly blinks them away. She hears Jaskier sigh and shuffle over in the bed behind her. 

“I don’t mean to be cruel, Yennefer. I know that’s not what you need. But you come here asking a favour from me – to be _intimate_ with me – when you won’t even admit that we’re friends. I don’t need much from you – because god knows I’ve had practice with that stubborn and infernally silent Witcher of ours – but I think I deserve that at least. I would _like_ that, at least, if I am to join you tonight.”

Yennefer grits her teeth and firms her folded arms, thankful that Jaskier can’t see the myriad of emotions cross her face. She remembers her fear at seeing Jaskier with a knife to his throat, her instinctive trust that he would take care of Geralt, her thoughts of him – constant, and cycling – and the way she felt when they were reunited: concern, warm, lustful… 

“I don’t know if we are friends,” she admits at last, tapping her fingers thoughtfully on her folded arms. “But I cannot deny a certain attraction to you, and I appreciate all that you do for Geralt.” She swallows, and admits the truth of it, “I did not ask you to join us solely for Geralt’s benefit. I enjoy you, and I like that we are… _friendly_ ,” she says, and turns back to him at descriptor, wanting to see his gratitude and receiving it in the soft lines of his face. “How’s that for ugly truths?”

Jaskier smiles, all crooked and genuine. “I probably ought to be offended that you just called your attraction to me ‘ugly’ but I’ll take what I can get.”

Yennefer feels a smile pulling at her own lips. “Good.”

Jaskier meets her eyes and rises from the bed, approaching her slow and steady, like he would a skittish Witcher. “Would you like to ask me again?” he says, looking at her through his eyelashes. 

His flirtation is by-the-book and ought to dull her. She ought not to be bothered by his cottish gaze and coy smile but she feels heat bloom inside her nonetheless. She finds herself responding in kind, her eyes falling to his lips when he bites them, her arms unfolding and fingers reaching for the loose shirt that reveals a tempting amount of his chest… “Jaskier,” she asks, without the urgency, without the games, without any of the bullshit, “would you like to join us tonight?”

Jaskier’s smile widens. It’s genuine and blinding and Yennefer no longer doubts how Geralt fell for his charms. “What a kind invitation, sweet Yennefer, if only I had a free evening with which to –”

“ _Jaskier_.”

He laughs, all boyish and sweet, and pulls her into a kiss that is just as lighthearted.

After a startled moment, Yennefer returns the kiss. Cautious, and exploratory. She is pleased to find it is not unpleasant, and that even this chaste kiss fans that little curl of warmth inside her into a roaring fire. She does not love him, she decides, but she desires him, and she has certainly taken people to bed with less. 

Jaskier steps away with a smug smile. “I’m sure I can clear some room in my busy schedule. Tonight, you say?”

Yennefer smirks and stays to tease him for a while, the two of them comparing notes on Geralt’s interests until they concoct a bare bones plan for the night. 

She hesitates to leave afterwards; standing up, but not quite leaving. “I heard he said goodbye to his horse in Aedd Gynvael. That can’t have been easy.”

She hears rather than sees Jaskier’s low exhale. “Ah, well, you know Geralt, he says he doesn’t get attached but we all know he does. We spoke about it though. He’ll be okay.”

_Huh_ , Yennefer muses, _Geralt speaking about his problems instead of just burying them deep, will wonders never cease._ “Well,” Yennefer says, a sliver of her astonishment shining through her hard exterior. “I’m glad. I wanted to say…” she takes a deep breath, attempts to recall what it sounded like when she heard it from Geralt’s lips that morning, how easy it had sounded, how pure, “thank you.”

Jaskier’s eyes seem to bulge, his mouth agape, as if the words are just as foreign to him.

“For looking after him,” she clarifies. “You’re good for him and I am… _thankful_ for your continued existence.”

“Careful, Yennefer,” he teases, shaking his head and picking up his lute again as a casual dismissal, “any more praise and I might think you’ve been replaced by a doppler. Actually, wait, if you are, do you mind waiting until the morning for the big reveal? I’ve got a very pressing engagement tonight.”

She smiles at his flirtation and, with one last look at his nimble fingers over the strings, leaves him to his devices.

-

Dinner that night is a raucous affair. Lambert, the prick, had requested Jaskier’s bawdiest songs and seemingly no one wants to defend Ciri’s innocence as Jaskier churns out filthy ditty after filthy ditty, and Ciri grows redder by the minute. Ciri isn’t the only one growing hotter, though Yennefer’s sure that her blush and Geralt’s shifting in his seat comes from something other than the dirty language. It comes from Jaskier’s saucy winks and cheeky smile, from the way his eyes sparkle with mischief, and the way her gaze falls to his fingers, nimble and quick. It comes from the promise of what’s to come.

When Jaskier’s next song opens with, _“oh Mary DeBrunt had a nice tight –”_ Yennefer finally steers Ciri from the proceedings. Triss had already retired for the night and it’s not as if these Witchers would consider shielding her from such things. 

“Oh, come on!” the girl complains, dragging her heels as the next line – _“never a bore, she was quite the –”_ rang out across the hall. “It’s not fair! Everyone else gets to listen!”

“Everyone else is not _fourteen_ –”

“Exactly!” Ciri exclaims, as they finally make it out the hall to the atrocious line – _“I plunged her depths, yes, our Mary was dripping wet”_ – “I’m practically an adult! If I was still at court, I would have been _married_ by now –”

And isn’t that a terrifying thought. 

“– I would have learned all that –” she exclaims, with a wave towards the closed door where the Witchers’ laughter can still be heard “– the hard way.”

“Then thank Melitele that you didn’t have to,” Yennefer says, ignoring the fact that Ciri, actually, does have a fair point. “Besides, _that_ –” she says with a similar gesture towards the door, “– isn’t educational, it’s male pride. Those songs are no more than bragging over conquests and telling tall tales. I can assure you that the authors of those rhymes don’t know a thing about pleasuring a woman.”

Ciri tilts her head with curiosity, “And you do?”

Yennefer flushes and tries to reason with herself that it’s impossible that Ciri could know about her entanglement with her tutor. And then, immediately, she feels guilty for treating her friendship with Triss like a dirty secret. So what if Ciri knows or suspects? It’s natural. It’s… nice. Perhaps Yennefer just doesn’t want Ciri putting her naive romanticism all over a decade-old convenient arrangement and calling it _love_. 

She pushes aside the thought and states, “You must have learned the secrets of your body by now. Basic pleasures that most men don’t even bother trying to learn. Trust me, you’ll learn more by your own hand than you will from listening to men’s peacocking.” 

Ciri had turned bright red at the first sentence and doesn’t seem to be flagging any time soon. “I know,” she mutters, “My grandmother would…” 

Ciri turns meek at the mention of her Cintran guardian. Yennefer wonders how she compares as a motherly figure: more absent, perhaps, but likely just as immoral, just as blunt, just as cold. At least she didn’t massacre elves, she supposed. 

“She would talk to me about these things,” Ciri concludes, with her eyes still diverted. “She was very upfront when it came to… carnal matters,” she whispers awkwardly. 

Yennefer smirks at her coyness, and tries to remember what she was like at this age. How the first time she laid eyes on Istredd, she felt something new and curious stir within her. Desire. Although, she hadn’t known what to name it then. 

“Good,” Yennefer says firmly. “And you know…” she closes her eyes, exhales firmly, remembers Geralt’s fatherly embrace, and Jaskier’s blunt accusation of her enforced distance that afternoon. She tries again: “If you ever have questions, if you want to talk… I am here for you. As your ward, as your _mother_. I care very much about you. And I am sorry for what transpired the other night. I don’t view you as – ”

“I know,” Ciri says with a shrug, empathy shining in her eyes.

It’s an easy way out, but Yennefer doesn’t deserve an easy way out. “I am not here out of _practicality_ ,” she says, detesting the word that was once her only defense, “I am not here to use you, or to further some political agenda. I am here because I love you. You are my ward and I care about you, and that is all the motivation I need to stay.” 

She has barely finished baring her soul when Ciri barrels into her, just as impassioned as she had been tackling Geralt in the courtyard that morning. Ciri clings to her middle and Yennefer feels the girl’s tears fall onto her hot cheeks. She skims her mind: finds thoughts of Calanthe, and hazy ones of her mother, and then, the smoke clearing at Sodden Hill and seeing an injured, battered stranger smile and take her hand. _I have become her mother_ , she realises, and she knows she is undeserving but she relishes in the fact nonetheless. _Mother_ – a descriptor she thought she would never possess. 

“I love you,” she repeats against the top of Ciri’s head as she holds her, just as tightly, in her arms. 

-

Yennefer returns to the large hall to see, to her horror, Lambert standing on the table beside Jaskier and drunkenly singing along to a song about “Gerry the Goat-fucker”. 

“I see that the song choice has not improved any in my absence,” she says, sliding onto the bench next to Geralt.

He smiles slyly and hides his amusement in his ale as Lambert slurs – _“he tugged on his horns, and a new desire was born, oh young Gerry was a goat virgin no more”_ – “I don’t know,” Geralt says, returning his tankard to the table, “you weren’t here for the song about tentacles –” 

Yennefer baulks but before she can voice her disdain, the ear-piercing duet continues onto new untold depths of depravity. Who knew that ‘prick’ rhymed with ‘sheep’ until this horrifying moment of clarity. 

“Perhaps,” Yennefer suggests after the terrible song has concluded, “Something a little less beastial?”

Jaskier winks, and bows, ever the showman, and strums a chord on his lute, “Of course, my good lady.”

Lambert snorts. “She ain’t a lady, and she definitely ain’t _good_ –” 

Yennefer grabs Geralt by the bicep before he can throw the punch that he was reading and he falls back onto the bench with a scowl.

“Careful, lad,” Vesemir warns on his behalf. “She’s a guest.”

“She’s something alright,” he mutters under his breath, before making himself scarce. Vesemir grunts – in disparagement or agreement, Yennefer can’t tell – as he follows suit and effectively empties the hall, given that Triss and Ciri have already retired for the night.

“What a sourpuss,” Jaskier comments before whistling between his teeth. He turns back to her with his usual charm, “But I believe I promised the lady a sweet song –”

“Pretty sure I didn’t say the word ‘sweet,’” she corrects.

“Eh. ‘Not beastial’... ‘sweet’... much the same sentiment. Now listen, my terrifying beauty, this is a song just for you –” 

He tells a tale of an ethereal beauty that he never dreamed he could touch; of gazing at the mountains from the plain and knowing he could never reach them. But then, this wanderer finds a bridge, good and sturdy, that leads him to the other side. And now he stands, immobilised at the foot of the mountains, paralysed now that the beauty he had yearned for is now laid so invitingly before him. A dream, made tangible for the first time. 

Yennefer flushes and ducks her head, the metaphor apparent, as their bard sings of his admiration and his apprehension. Geralt has his brow furrowed beside her, as if he is also trying to parse the meaning. Perhaps he does not understand how this tale of a mountain and a traveller translates as a love song. Yennefer understands though: it is not a love song, as much as it is an explanation, a warning, and an apology. 

When he is done, she rises gracefully, and walks towards him, placing her fingers over the fretboard where his hand still lies. “You are smart enough to know, I assume, that beautiful things are only beautiful from far away.”

Jaskier ducks his head with a tentative smile, “And therein lies the meaning,” he says with a sigh, displacing her hand as he removes the instrument from his person. “If you are of a cynical mind, that is.”

“And if you are not?” she asks with an inquiring tilt of her head. His eyes have not left hers; sincere, and searching. 

“I would say,” he says with some thought, “that no matter the rough terrain, it may still be worth traversing it, that even though the view is different from across the bridge, it does not mean there is not still beauty to view.”

Yennefer smiles shyly, charmed despite herself. “Do you write a song for everyone you’re trying to bed?”

“Oh, certainly,” Jaskier says with a wink, his usual confidence returning. “There are several odes, come to mention it, that celebrate Geralt’s sizeable manhood –”

“Which will never see the light of day,” Geralt interjects, coming to stand beside them. 

He brushes his lips against Jaskier’s cheek, eyes darting to Yennefer for confirmation. She nods with a small smile, more certain of her decision than ever before. “If you two have finished flirting, I believe there is a bed awaiting us.”

“Well,” Jaskier says, turning to pack away his lute, “with an invitation like that, how can I refuse?” 


	4. Chapter 4

When they enter her chambers, the boys suddenly get a little shy. Yennefer rolls her eyes and decides to make their decisions for them, and she’s immensely pleased when Jaskier follows her orders just as eagerly as Geralt does. She feels especially smug when she sees Jaskier’s gormless expression at a little use of magic in the bedroom; the boy looking as if all his fantasies have been realised when she uses a little whisper of magic to remove her clothing in an efficient manner. 

Geralt – who is more than used to such displays in the bedroom – doesn’t blink from his position against the headboard. She wonders if she will have to demonstrate another use of magic if he doesn’t obey her order to keep his hands to himself. Tonight is a gift from his lovers, after all, and she doesn’t want him exerting himself unnecessarily. 

She turns back to Jaskier just as he discards the last piece of his clothing. It’s funny; she had him pegged as a more fastidious type but his clothing lays crumpled on the floor as if he doesn’t care one whit for the wrinkles it will cause the fine fabric. Perhaps he is just as impatient as she is to expedite the proceedings.

“I think it’s time we give our witcher a bit of a show, don’t you?” she encourages with a flirtatious smile.

She watches with amusement as Jaskier’s eyes track the progress of her discarded underwear until he seems to notice his distraction and snaps his head back to hers. 

Jaskier nods and approaches her with hesitant steps and his chin jutting outwards, like a child wanting to prove his worth. She likes that he’s stubborn. She likes that he wants to do whatever is necessary to please Geralt. She can sense – and also, rather, _see_ – the evidence of his attraction but it’s clear that her presence still makes him a little nervous. It’s possible, actually, for Jaskier, that that’s actually a turn-on.

What did he say? _“I still think she’d eat me alive, but I’m starting to think that’s not such a bad thing.”_

Indeed.

She inclines her head towards the bed where Geralt is dutifully waiting for them and ensures that he has a good view as they settle on their knees before him. She sees Geralt swallow in anticipation and glimpses the swell of his manhood and knows that what she has planned with Jaskier will drive him positively to madness. 

When she turns back to Jaskier, however, he catches her completely off guard.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks.

Yennefer turns back towards him with a raised eyebrow. “How sweet of you to ask,” she says, and finds that she actually means it. “You may, if you like. But I would prefer it if you put your pretty fingers between my legs instead.”

She hears Geralt’s muffled groan but is too fascinated by Jaskier’s wide eyes and nervous bobble of his Adam’s apple to look away. Perhaps Jaskier is not used to such specific demands in bed (knowing Geralt’s submissive tendencies it’s quite likely) but he doesn’t hesitate to comply though. He captures her lips in a deep kiss at the same time his fingers slip between her folds.

As pleasurable as Jaskier’s touch is, the fact that it’s driving Geralt to madness gives her just as much pleasure. They have only just begun their show when she does, indeed, have to enchant his hands to stay put. He groans at the constriction, and she smirks, confident that she’s made the right choice, as she turns back to look at Jaskier’s lust-filled eyes.

This time it’s her who can’t resist a kiss, and then, on his talented musician’s fingers, she finds herself reaching her peak sooner than she’d expected, digging her fingernails into his shoulders and screaming her pleasure up towards the skies. 

Through the haze of her bliss, she hears Geralt’s guttural curse and laughs deliriously as she comes to straddle Jaskier. She hadn’t planned on taking him fully but when Geralt has such a beautiful reaction to their lovemaking she can hardly resist.

Jaskier nods enthusiastically when she makes her intentions clear, and when she lowers herself onto him, Geralt makes the most divine noises – little frustrated cut-off groans that she knows encourages Jaskier just as much. She makes a show of kissing him as she begins to circle her hips and then, when their bodies are in full sway, she turns both of their heads towards Geralt so he won’t miss a single moment of bliss on his lovers’ faces. 

Jaskier feels so good inside her that she’s tempted to chase another high but Geralt is straining from his need and they have denied him long enough. The witcher gasps a soft “please” and she can resist no longer – crawling up the bed towards him and dissolving the spell binding Geralt’s hands with a simple click of fingers. 

Geralt groans at his sudden freedom and surges up to cup Yennefer’s head in his hands, pulling her towards him for an utterly filthy kiss. The kiss is so intoxicating that Yennefer loses all sense of time and reality as she gives into it. His lips are so warm, and desperate, seeking her out over and over again, and she moans at the ardent demonstration of his passion.

Jaskier has not been idle amidst her distraction, returning to them with a handy vial of oil, and it’s not long before Geralt is occupied with the bard instead. Never one to be forgotten, Yennefer lies against the headboard as Jaskier tugs Geralt down the bed until the witcher is lying on his stomach with his head nestled between the valley of her legs. Geralt takes to her, as eager as always, but with the delightful addition of spontaneous moans against her sensitive tissue whenever Jaskier does anything particularly devilish with his fingers.

She manages to hold off her second peak until Jaskier enters Geralt in earnest and the witcher’s groan seemingly vibrates through her entire body. She gasps and tangles her hand in his long hair as she rides the waves of pleasure, and as earnest as his attempts are to guide her through it, it’s clear that Jaskier has disrupted his single-minded fixation. 

Yennefer pries him away as soon as she can and rests his head on her thigh, petting his hair softly, and looking into his glassy adoring eyes as his mouth hangs agape in pleasure. She knew, academically, that Geralt enjoyed this act, but seeing the mindless bliss on his face is something that she is honoured to witness. How many people have seen a witcher laid out before them so vulnerable and unguarded? He _trusts_ himself with them, and she loves him even more for it. 

She glances up to catch eyes with Jaskier – who is beautifully disheveled; slick with sweat and eyes wild – and sees that he is just as enchanted by the evidential trust the act brings. 

Yennefer tilts her head in a silent question and Jaskier nods in response before following through on their previously arranged plans and rolling Geralt onto his side and lying either side of him. Jaskier is still moving inside him at a deep and moderate pace while Geralt’s thigh rests over Yennefer’s hip, giving her the most marvellous view of their lovemaking. 

She kisses Geralt’s open mouth sweetly and reaches behind him to stroke Jaskier’s side in encouragement. They’re both close, she can sense it, and she wants Geralt inside her before it’s all over, so very carefully as to not to disrupt them, she slips a scant closer to Geralt and lowers herself onto him. 

He groans, overwhelmed, at the dual attention from his lovers.

He feels just as magnificent inside her as always and the way his blunt fingernails dig into her hip makes her cry out from the sharp sensation. 

She knows he’s close when he starts to _whimper_. She so rarely exhausts him to such a degree but between the two of them, Geralt has little choice but to wholly submit to his pleasure. He’s murmuring nonsensical phrases from which Yennefer deduces that he must be moments away from his peak.

She begins to hurry her own attentions just as Jaskier leans down to whisper encouragements in Geralt’s ear. Seemingly, this is all it takes, as moments later, he peaks with a strangled moan; too fucked-out to vocalise his pleasure any louder. 

Jaskier whimpers and withdraws, pleasuring himself hurriedly against Geralt’s back until he paints the scarred skin with his release. 

The sight of the two of them, sated and sweaty, flushed with exertion and smelling so thickly of sex, bring her to her third and final peak, and then she is falling over the edge with them and slipping into blissful exhaustion. 

-

Yennefer wakes the next morning to the familiar and comforting slow heartbeat of her lover sounding softly in her ear. She blearily cracks open an eye to find the bed empty except for Geralt and casts her eye across the bedroom, noting that Jaskier has taken every trace of him when he disappeared in the early hours. A shame. She was looking forward to some early morning fun.

She rolls her head to find Geralt already awake; his brow furrowed and his lips downturned. 

She places one hand on his chest as the other comes to smooth away the furrow. “I’d hoped you would be happy.”

“Hmm?”

“Last night. You seemed to enjoy it.”

“I did,” he says. “I am.”

Yennefer leans up on her elbow, concerned by his stoicism. “Then what troubles you so? The djinn?”

Geralt shakes his head, and his eyes fall to the empty space beside them.

“Ah, the bard,” she says, understanding the source of his melancholy. “I’m sure he won’t have strayed far.”

“Hmm.”

Yennefer sighs. This morning was clearly not going to go how she envisioned. Giving up on the possibility for a little morning delight, she rolls out of bed and wraps a black silk dressing gown around her shoulders. “You have reason to be concerned?” she asks, as she sits before the mirror and straightens out her hair. “I thought he knew of your affection.”

“He… does.”

Yennefer turns around to look at him with skepticism because that hesitant answer deserves skepticism. “Meaning what exactly?”

“I gave him gifts. I said I didn’t want to lose him. He said he’s mine,” Geralt says with a frown, like he doesn’t understand the sentiment. “He knows,” he concludes with a huff. 

Yennefer rolls her eyes as she puts on her earrings, endlessly amused by the inadequacy of boys expressing feelings. “I’m sure he does, but perhaps in the future it might be worth ensuring the fact. Perhaps being a little more direct. A simple ‘I love you’ ought to suffice. He’s clearly feeling insecure if he’s scampering from our bed at daybreak.”

Geralt shakes his head and gazes out the window, no doubt hearing the others train in the courtyard even from this distance. “Since when do you care about Jaskier and his feelings?”

Yennefer shrugs and starts re-applying her make-up. “Someone has to, Geralt. He’s a delicate little flower.”

“He’s no such thing,” Geralt bites, finally throwing off the covers and getting out of bed. “And you know it.”

Yennefer smiles, pleased that Geralt recognises as much. She meant what she said; underneath the wit and the barbs is a very insecure man who no doubt reels at every harsh word Geralt throws his way. But he’s not delicate. Not by any means. “Perhaps that’s why I like him,” she admits with a smirk and flick of paintbrush. “He’s the only other person capable of putting up with your bullshit. Speaking of bullshit,” she says, finally donning her dress and necklace with another click of fingers. “We ought to see to that pesky little djinn curse of ours.”

-

They leave the fortress on some excuse or other and reconvene down by the lake, unwilling to risk Vesemir’s fury if they let a djinn loose at Kaer Morhen. 

Geralt had spent the morning pining after Jaskier – fist furled with jealousy when he saw him training with the others, body tucked tightly between Lambert’s arms – but Geralt’s feelings of inadequacy seemed to be resolved with some sort of manly cock-measuring contest disguised as a Witcher’s duel and as childish as the whole affair was, she cannot argue the end results. Geralt took Jaskier softly in his arms shortly afterwards and murmured words that Yennefer could not hear. She doesn’t attempt to understand the problems that men create out of too much testerone and too little talking but she glimpses the two of them exchange a tender kiss and harbours hope that they might be on their way to resolving things. 

“You should go to him tonight,” Yennefer advises as they traverse down the icy path towards the lake. “Say what you need to say. You should have at least one stable relationship in your life.”

“Are you implying our relationship would be unstable even without the djinn?”

Yennefer huffs a laugh, and graciously accepts Geralt’s proffered hand when they reach a particularly difficult patch of terrain. She rights herself and concludes, “I think we don’t know _what_ we are without that wish. And however this goes…”

Geralt hums at her incomplete thought, apparently the phrase having spoken enough for the two of them. “However this goes,” he says earnestly, “we still have Ciri. That won’t change.”

Yennefer feels relief surge through her at the sentiment. She doesn’t want to lose her new family, or this strange sense of home that comes with Geralt. Yes. This may change _them_ , but it won’t change what they have built. 

She takes his hand, and feels calm and steady despite the rocky terrain.

-

They stand on the rotting wooden platform next to the abandoned fisherman’s hut with the lake stretched out before them. It’s a grey day; the clouds low and cloaking the mountains that surround them. She glances at Geralt, her stomach twisting with anxiety, but when he nods back – as sure as anything – it gives her the strength to break the seal.

Once again, the djinn resists her capture, though it is much easier to control it with the flash and fury of Geralt’s silver sword weakening its magic. For a minute, she loses her witcher in the blue cloud of electricity and raw chaos but she forces herself to focus and in time she succeeds in containing it once more. 

She opens her eyes to see the djinn hovering before her like it did on Skellige; a blue globe of light, still crackling with chaos.

Yennefer manages to shout over the immense magic between them, reassuring the djinn once again that she only needs one wish before releasing it. “Do you see the spell that binds us?” she calls out to it. 

The djinn makes a garbled noise, more power than voice, but that she knows is an affirmative. “Only a djinn can remove another djinn’s spell! Remove this one and you’ll be free!”

She exchanges a nervous glance with Geralt, suddenly worried that they may have come all this way for nothing, but then – 

The djinn speaks ancient words, deep and unknown, and Yennefer feels magic pulse from its core towards them and the thread between her and Geralt pulled taut before being broken free. 

She gasps and stumbles backwards and with her last strength, bids the djinn free. 

The beast groans and explodes outwards in a flurry of electricity and chaos; the blue light skittering across the water and into the mountains before disappearing from sight.

She sags with exhaustion afterwards and this time, Geralt is there to catch her. She hopes she did right. She hopes that she’ll look at Geralt and feel everything that she used to feel. But she fears the answer and squeezes her eyes tight shut as his calloused hands cup her cheek and his gruff voice echoes in her ears. 

“We should sit,” he says, and she does because she doesn’t know what else to do.

Damp wood beneath them. Feet dangling from the pier. A winter’s breeze, the only thing between them.

“Do you feel… different?” Geralt asks after some time, cautious and quiet. 

Yennefer mulls it over, casting her eyes over the familiar face and feeling the warm flicker of love still deep inside her. She smiles, overcome with relief, as she realises the truth. She _loves_ him – _djinn, or no djinn_ , just as he said to her long ago. 

She feels tears in her eyes and a lightness soar in her chest. She feels the same, only it’s _lighter_ than it was before. Freeing. Before, her love had felt like a prison – inescapable; more like a curse than a blessing – but now she is not obligated to feel it, now she knows her feelings are real, and that she can _choose_ to feel this way… She feels _liberated_. 

“I thought I’d look at you and feel nothing at all,” she explains. “That you’d be a stranger to me... but it’s not like that at all,” she says, tenderly stroking the jut of his jaw that has become so familiar to her. “Nothing’s changed.”

Geralt smiles back, just as cautiously, and gently links his hand with hers. “The djinn might have cheated us after all,” he says gruffly. 

“Why?” Yennefer asks with a frown, afraid that he might feel differently.

“‘Cause I don't feel that anything’s changed either.”

She huffs a laugh at his stupid joke and leans into his side, allowing herself to feel comforted by his warmth in a way she never dared to feel before. _He feels this too_. 

His lips brush across her temple and she sighs at the simple pleasure of a love returned. “I love you, Yen.”

“And I love you,” she returns, as natural as breathing. 

He kisses her, and kisses her, and when they break apart, Geralt huffs a laugh against her lips. 

“Strange… I’ve done that so many times, but… it felt like our first kiss to me.”

Yennefer smiles at his sweetly and cups his cheek; she knows exactly what he means. “It was,” she allows, “in a way.”

Perhaps kisses always taste different after a mutual confirmation of love. She wouldn’t know.

She kisses him again and when he groans and carries her into the abandoned fisherman’s hut to fuck her sweetly yet ardently against the creaking wall she wonders if this freeing sensation that she feels in her chest is what love is truly meant to feel like.

“I love you,” she tells him afterwards, unable to cease saying it now she knows it’s true meaning and knows it to be real. “I love you.”

He laughs and tells her the same and spends the entire afternoon holding her and learning each other all over again. 

_Why had she been afraid?_ she asks herself as he loves her, unashamed and eager. _Love is not selfish, or a curse, or an agenda. Love is freedom. _

And, perhaps, when all is said and all is done, even hardened sorceresses are allowed to indulge in a little sentimentality. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the djinn dialogue is pretty much lifted straight from the Wild Hunt. 
> 
> many thanks for reading, friends! you can follow me on [tumblr](https://vands38.tumblr.com/) if you like <3
> 
> there's just one installment left of this series!


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